A single plate sat at the head of the table—a slice of store-bought cake, slightly lopsided, the frosting a little smeared from the plastic container it had traveled in.

One candle. Y/n had found it in the back of a drawer. A birthday candle shaped like a "?"

The chair scraped against the marble floor. The lighter flickered. The tiny flame danced.

Outside, the Gotham skyline blinked through the tall windows—a city of neon and shadow, indifferent to the small, quiet occasion happening inside Wayne Manor.

Alone. The cake sat untouched. The candle burned.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate. Coming down the hall.